


Stars and what's between them

by Pufosenie23



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Because of Reasons, Developing Relationship, Fluff, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I really like the idea, John is a Saint, Light Angst, M/M, Or a star, Romance, Sherlock Plays the Violin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 10:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19461646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pufosenie23/pseuds/Pufosenie23
Summary: Basically John is a star and takes interest in Sherlock Holmes...He decides to help the man open up, and things get a little complicated when the two fall in love





	Stars and what's between them

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on the second and final chapter, but I can't promise I'll post too soon...Real life is a bitch:)

John found the humans strange creatures. Strange, yes, but fascinating. Always running around, always in a hurry, always wanting money, fame, comfort...

John learnt to classify them: modest and arrogant, introverted and extroverted, dumb and smart... 

However, over the time(approximately 1 thousand years since his creation) there were some interesting human beings. Some who fought for justice, some who fought for what they considered was the right cause, some who wanted equal rights, some who *cared*.

Those were rare, however, and even more rare were the ones who succeeded in their battles. Anyway, John had found one, once again.

Even though, he was nothing like the others. In fact, he was the exact opposite of them. Arrogant, outsmarting everyone, calling them dumb, idiots, insulting other human beings, pretending he didn't care. John, in all his existence, that was quite long if he sat to think about it, has never ever met someone who was so emotionally guarded, someone so determined to keep his heart, his feelings just for himself, like this man. Sherlock Holmes.

Everything about that man was endearing. Even his name, for God's sake, was nothing like John has ever heard of! However, watching him was beginning to not be enough for the Star. John longed to see him, face to face, not just from far away in the sky. John longed to talk to him, get to know him. But, most of all, the Star wanted to finally, finally get the man to open up, to stop bottling up his emotions. Because John knew he was going to break one of these days. He was going to break down in pieces and only God knows what will happen to him then. That's why John wanted to help.

And that's why, The Star found itself standing on the edge of the window, at 221B Baker Street, watching the man sleep peacefully. One of the few times Sherlock found himself in that position, really! 

John had taken a human form, even though star dust was falling from his golden hair, even though his eyes were an impossible shade of dark blue - the true colour of the endless galaxy, as John knew it-, even though his entire body was surrounded by a soft, white glow, a reminder of what he truly was.

The man shifted slightly in his sleep, tossing and turning, pain obvious on his features. John found himself taken aback by the intensity of it: raw pain and longing were encrusted into his unguarded face. He was at his most vulnerable state and John finally realised why the detective dreaded this, sometime refusing himself sleep for days. (John knew this after following the man for an year)

John slowly approached the sleeping figure, the room suddenly illuminated by the Star's soft glow. As he got closer, John marveled at the sight of the detective. The white, gentle light was sneaking through his crazy, ebony black curls accentuating them and making a stark contrast between the hair and his pale complexion. His cheekbones were standing out, the shadow beneath them deepening, giving the man an austere air as he lay there in utter silence, with his whole face clouded by pain and fear.

John softly traced the outline of his Cupid bow lips that were now stuck into a pained grimace, and soothingly caressed Sherlock's cheeks. The man visibly relaxed and leaned into John's light touch like a cat. John smiled sadly down at him.

"Oh, you poor human, what could possibly happen to you to get your soul crushed like that?" The Star whispered, curiosity and sadness dripping from his voice.

Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes shot open, knocking the air out of John's lungs. Two amazingly green eyes stared up at him in wonder and confusion, and long, slender fingers curled around John's wrist, holding him in place with a tight grip.

For a moment, John was lost. His eyes were every hue of the forest, rimmed coolly with moss. Their lightness reminded him of summertime, when the sun - rays warmed each extended leaf. Next to the shade of his hair, that deepest black, he was alive in the same way birds are, casually wild.

And then, Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. John flinched and jumped back, star dust falling from his hair like snow in winter. John was at loss. How could he let this happen? Sherlock wasn't supposed to see him! Sherlock couldn't see him! 

He turned around ready to dash out the window, when a deep, raspy voice echoed in the otherwise silent room.

"What are you?"

John cursed himself for staying. Now, what could he say to this man to not freak him out?

The Star slowly turned back around to face the detective and swallowed thickly.

"What do you think I am?" John's voice was silky and smooth, a voice that you would usually associate with someone singing a lullaby, gentle, caring, soft.

Sherlock stared. His eyes travelling across John's frame, analyzing him, *deducing* him. There was something wild and primal about his gaze. Something that made John shiver and his heart beat loudly in his chest. So loudly, that John feared Sherlock could hear it from where he was standing in the middle of his bed. It was a foreign sensation to the Star and John frowned. Was this normal? Was this how normal human interaction went? He made a mental note to do some research on this theme.

He snapped back to reality when Sherlock growled, seeming annoyed.

"What are you? You're clearly not human. No human glows like that! Are you some sort of experiment? If yes, how did you end up here?" the detective narrowed his eyes dangerously.

"Does Mycroft have something to do with this?"

Mycroft. Sherlock's brother. The Star knew this much. John knew about the detective's strange aversion towards his older sibling, too, even though he didn't know what caused it in the first place. He was also aware of the same cold approach the other Holmes seemed to take when it came to emotions. What was it with these brothers and feelings?

John shook his head. 

"No and no. I came here because you seemed ...interesting..." It was the truth, well part of it anyway, but he wasn't going to tell Sherlock his main reasoning for being here in the first place.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Interesting?" he repeated the word, the letters rolling of his tongue slowly, carefully, almost like the detective was trying to speak in a foreign language. 

When John nodded, Sherlock scoffed in disbelief.

"That's not what most people would say."

John shot him a gentle smile and took some steps towards the detective, all thoughts of leaving suddenly gone.

"I'm not most people."

Sherlock inclined his head and gave him a puzzled look. "No, you're not." He whispered and got up. 

From two steps he was standing in front of John his dark silhouette towering over the Star's much smaller frame. The latter looked up.

"What do most people say?"

"Freak, crazy, psychopath -he scoffed, clearly annoyed - even though the correct term is high functioning sociopath."

John's entire face softened. His heart ached for this poor soul.

"That's not true!"

For a fraction of a moment, John saw a painfully obvious pain flashing on Sherlock's face, but then the stoic, emotionless detective reappeared looking down at the Star.

"You know nothing about me!"

John liked his lower lip nervously. He didn't know if it was a wise choice to tell him but -

"That's also not true." 

Sherlock didn't react. All he did was stare at John with endless curiosity in his green eyes.

"You still didn't answer my question...What are you?"

John let a soft smile spread on his face. He turned around, opened the window and climbed on the still. He took a last glance at Sherlock that was now standing in the middle of the room, looking a little lost. John bit his lip to keep himself from smirking.

"That," he said knowing Sherlock will take it as a challenge " you'll have to find out yourself."

Then, John jumped and disappeared into the night, leaving the detective alone in the darkness of his room.

****  
The next few days, John watched Sherlock struggling with the new puzzle. The process was really interesting to watch. 

The detective was now keeping himself busy reading all kinds of books, or doing some research on the internet(as humans call it). One day the Star was particularly amused by the 'tedious' ( as Sherlock would refer to it) process of going to his brother for help. Of course Sherlock didn't give away anything too strange, saying that he had a rather peculiar meeting the other day and wanting to know if Mycroft had something to do with it. He didn't. So the search continued.

Some days were spent on the sofa, thinking, with his dark curls all over the place, a peaceful expression resting on his face and his long, slender fingers barely brushing the skin of his chin. 

Usually, when this occurred John simply appeared in the living room, sitting in an armchair placed right next to the fireplace and admiring Sherlock's beauty. There was something endearing about the way his chest would rise and fall at regular intervals of time and how he would sometimes sigh deeply, seeming almost excited. Like he did when he discovered something of particular importance when solving a crime. Speaking of which, Sherlock still took cases, despite his obvious internal turmoil. It made John worry for his well being, seeing as the detective tended to not sleep or eat when he was on cases.

John didn't know why he did. Why he cared so much about this man, why his body and soul reacted to Sherlock the why they did: all fluttery and excited, shivering with barely contained happiness and admiration for the genius. At first, he blamed it on his transport, his human form, but even as a star, John could feel a particular emotion inside him, making him glow brighter, making him go crazy in anticipation of his next visit.

And speaking of visits, usually he would come only during the times when Sherlock slept or was deep in thought, being careful with his hair( so no more star dust on the floor) and floating some inches above the ground so he didn't mess anything up in the flat and wake up the detective. He would come mostly during the day, seeing that Sherlock didn't sleep much these days, and would disappear as soon as Sherlock stirred, ready to wake up from his session in his Mind Palace.

John carried on like that for a month, always careful. Except from today. Today, when his transport refused to leave. When he couldn't change back in his star form fast enough, remaining floating above the ground looking terrified at Sherlock.

The detective groaned and stood up, rubbing at his neck with his long, violinist fingers. He opened his eyes and froze. His now blue irises were fixed on John, with his mouth slightly open as in shock.

John was staring at Sherlock too, once again caught in the beauty of the detective's eyes. They had a thousand hues of blue and a small touch of green radiating in softly swooping arcs. They were breath taking and John found himself inhaling sharply when he was snapped out of his trance by a deep, baritone voice.

"How do you do that? And why are you not glowing anymore?"

John looked down at himself, immediately seeing what he meant. The floating. He looked back up, doing serious efforts to not look into Sherlock's eyes again. He set his eyes on his forehead( yes forehead was good, safe) and said:

"Natural ability I guess." John shrugged "I never paid it too much attention."

John could see a glimpse of Sherlock's thin eyebrows, meaning he had raised them, clearly confused.

"Never paid it too much attention, huh..." he was muttering, whether it was for himself or for John, the Star couldn't tell, so he kept his mouth shut. 

"What about the glowing thing?"

That was it, that was his limit. John couldn't help himself anymore. He glanced back down into Sherlock's eyes. He could feel his knees go weak and he was suddenly tankful for his current position in the air. He wasn't sure his legs could have supported him at the moment. His ears were burning red. 

John cleared his throat awkwardly.

"It's the daylight. I never glow in the daylight."

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. An awkward silence fell upon them, making John's skin itch.

"You umm...you don't- you don't seem too surprised to see me  
.." John finally said in a pathetic attempt to end the embarrassing tension that was floating in the air.

Sherlock scoffed.

"I figured out you were going to come some of these days. Took you long enough." 

John opened his mouth to correct him, but quickly closed it. *In fact, I've been watching you sleep/ think* sounded too creepy even in his own head.

Instead he settled for floating towards his armchair( the one near the fireplace) and let himself fall in it, ignoring the annoying squeak of the arches that protested loudly at his landing. He made himself comfortable sinking deeper in the soft armchair and turned his head to look at Sherlock. The man was glaring at him.

"You'll get that white powder all over the armchair. Stop moving!" Sherlock snapped at him. John muffled a giggle, knowing it wasn't exactly appropriate and tried to look serious.

"It's not powder." John replied calmly, barely keeping himself from smirking when he saw the annoyed look on Sherlock's face.

"What is it then?" The detective asked, crossing his arms across his chest, and actually pouting. John's heart fluttered at the sight.

"Never mind that. I'll tell you if you tell me if you figured out what I am."- a scoff-" A trade. What do you say?" John said with a sneaky smile, knowing Sherlock couldn't refuse this.

He was proven right when Sherlock nodded, looking confident. And then...silence. John had to restrain himself from looking too smug when the silence stretched out. It could only mean one thing. Sherlock had no idea what to say.

"Want me to give you a hint?" John asked, simply adding fuel to the fire.

Sherlock made a face and shook his head angrily.

"I don't want you to give me a bloody hint!! I want to know what you are?!! I've done some research this past month, I even read those ridiculous books about mythology, but I couldn't find anything that matched your description!!"

John could almost see smoke coming from Sherlock's ears..He was adorable when he was angry. Shaking his head, he forced himself to focus.

He got up( no floating this time) and walking past a surprised Sherlock he entered the kitchen. Grabbing a clean flacon from the table(Sherlock never cleans up after himself and always has an experiment going), John made some sudden moves with his head, catching a bit of star dust and putting it in the glass tube. Then he turned around and faced Sherlock. The man was now staring at him, with his arms crossed, from the doorway.

Normally, John would toy with the man some more, but after witnessing Sherlock's methods to try and understand something better, he preferred to simply spit it out. John didn't want Sherlock's drug addiction to return. Not after he found out what drugs really did. What an evil invention!!

"This," - he raised the flacon -"is *star dust* and *I* am a star."

He watched as different emotions flashed on Sherlock's face. Shock, wonder, disbelief... The detective frowned down at John.

"That's impossible. Stars are astronomical objects consisting of a luminous spheroid of plasma held together by their own gravity."

John scoffed. Humans!! They were so arrogant, always thinking they know everything! Have they even *touched* a star???Ever?

"You don't believe me?Then just study that star dust I gave you...should be enough, shouldn't it?" John said, pushing the flacon in Sherlock's already opened hand. He cursed himself for the lingering touch and the chills that came with it. 

He tried to get past Sherlock and into the living room, but the younger man wouldn't let him. He grunted.

"Damn you and your height!!Seriously now, how tall are you???" 

When the other didn't respond, John raised his hands, physically trying to push the younger away. Sherlock didn't move an inch, watching him with cold, calculating eyes.(And good God, what eyes!!)

Suddenly, Sherlock got a grip of John's right wrist and the latter yelped. Sparks of electricity were running up his arm extending throughout his body. He shivered despite the warmth seeping through his wrist from Sherlock's warm hand. He couldn't look up, knowing the detective would notice right away the redness in his cheeks.

"W-what are you doing?"

"Firstly, I'm not that tall, you're just short and secondly, you can't just leave me hanging like that. If what you're saying it's true, thing I'm still doubting, then even if I analyse the "star dust" I don't have any real term of comparison so no, it isn't enough. I need more data."

Sherlock was rumbling in his deep baritone voice at a fast pace, making it hard for John to keep up, since this wasn't really his language. ( His consisted in complicated sounds impossible for humans to reproduce) Oh, and the fact that Sherlock's violinist fingers were still on his skin wasn't helping either. Still, John understood enough from the detective's speech to get an idea. An idea that would work for both of them.

John forced himself to look up and fix his gaze into Sherlock's now dark blue eyes, making sure he made himself clear.

"Well, while I can tell you more useful things about me and my race, I reckon it would be even better if you could study me for real."

It was just a matter of seconds until the slightly confused Sherlock realised what John was really suggesting. A wide grin spread across his face. It made John's poor heart stumble.

"You're saying you want to live here, with me?" There was an embarrassed nod from John, and Sherlock's grin grew even wider.

"Then we'll have to talk to Mrs. Hudson about this. She's the landlady."

****  
After realising he was still holding John's wrist, Sherlock finally released him. The Star let out a breath he didn't realise he was holding and rubbed at his skin trying to woo away the lingering sensation of Sherlock's long, slender fingers on him.

Just as John was about to push past the detective, Sherlock stopped him with a question.

"Do you - umm - do you have a name?"

John was a bit startled. He hasn't been expecting this. Not so sudden. Normally, stars don't have names, or rather they have but don't use them. They're almost impossible to pronounce. But this wasn't John's first visit on Earth...well it was, in human form. 

The Star remembered the blonde, small and sweet female vividly. She was the first that really caught his attention. Mary. She was dying. Suffering from an incurable illness. He could relieve her pain, even if it was just for a bit, in his Star form. The sweet thing thought she was hallucinating. John tried to tell her she wasn't, but gave up soon enough. It was a lost battle. He would come every night to visit, watching her and holding her hand. It was cold and lifeless, the only thing that showed she was alive being the slow rise and fall of her chest. They had long conversations, trying to keep her mind away from the pain Mary was experimenting. Some nights, if they were lucky, John could lull her to sleep, singing her lullabies in an old, forgotten language. The language of the universe, pure, untainted.

And then, one night, John found her writhing and tossing on the bed, more alive than he had ever seen her before. And what irony, that aliveness only announcing her death. He tried everything he could to keep her alive, but her pulse was slowing with every second that passed until it had gone silent. Her last words had been "John.".

John smiled bitterly at the memory. At least her soul was at rest now. He turned to look at Sherlock. The detective was watching him expectantly.

" John. My name's John."

Somehow sensing John's sadness he nodded and quickly changed the subject pushing him in the direction of the bathroom. Before John could protest he said:

"You need to take a shower and get that powder out of your hair. And yes, I will continue to call it powder until I'm convinced you're telling the truth."

John rolled his eyes a bit annoyed ,but allowed Sherlock to continue to push him.(It wasn't just because he enjoyed the feeling  
....That would have been straight away pathetic...)

And soon enough, John found himself in front of what he assumed it was a bathtub with a strange round looking thing (was that a shower head?) fixed in the wall next to it.

He turned to look at Sherlock, lost. The man was rumbling... again.

"You have some fresh towels here and I'll go and get you some new clothes, yours are a bit strange. Like, that jumper is horrible, seriously John your taste is terrible when it comes to this. My clothes might be a bit large on you but they should d-"

"SHERLOCK!!" The detective finally stopped and looked at John with raised eyebrows.

The Star was looking everywhere but in his direction and his whole face was scarlet.

"I - uh...I...Oh sod it! I have no idea how a shower works!" he finally spat it out.

At that Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and simply stared at John completely dumbstruck. He opened and closed his mouth several times in an obvious attempt to speak, but it appeared he was tongue - tied. His now stormy grey eyes were travelling across John's frame, probably trying to see if he was telling the truth. John was doing his best to stand stock still and not die of embarrassment on the spot. 

Finally, Sherlock snapped back to reality and with a defeated sigh he said:

"Just...take off your jumper. Keep your trousers on. We just need to get rid of the powder." 

John raised his eyebrows questionably at Sherlock's unusual flustered state.

"Why?Won't they get wet?" The Star asked already unbuckling his belt. He didn't know too much about this mundane thing, but he was sure a shower implied water on your *bare* skin.

Sherlock rushed at his side and caught John's hands in a tight grip stopping him. His voice was strange, thick and full of something John couldn't quite describe.

"Keep. Them. On"

John took in a sharp breath and pulled away from the detective's electrifying touch. He looked at Sherlock waiting for an explanation. The latter sighed.

"Humans aren't- we aren't comfortable with this...with this kind of thing. Not having our clothes on.."

"But you just told me to take off my jumper!" John pretested.

"That's something else!"

"How?"

Sherlock looked awfully upset at himself for not making it any clearer for the poor confused Star.

"It's fine as long as our private part are covered."

John cocked his head, obviously having a hard time comprehending this piece of information.

"Just...keep the trousers on. I'm the last person on the Earth to ask about these things" Sherlock finally said in frustration. And then after noticing John's still lingering gaze he added:

"You can look it up on the internet. It'll make it clearer for you." 

The detective relaxed a bit more after John nodded(tho the latter did it only because he noticed how uncomfortable it was for Sherlock) and without even realising it, took off John's jumper.

Upon registering his previous actions, Sherlock's flustered state returned, his cheekbones reddening and he backed away like John's golden skin burnt him. The Star's heart clenched at the sight. Did he do something wrong? 

"I'm sorr- "

Sherlock stopped mid - sentence, looking at John. More precisely at John's left shoulder. John felt self conscious. There, on his left shoulder stood a star-shaped scar, the angry red skin standing out on his, otherwise, smooth, flawless body.

John was about to put on his jumper once more and just give up, when, suddenly, Sherlock was at his side, touching the scar. John yelped helplessly and frowned at the fluttery feeling in his lower belly. He didn't know why but *it felt good*. It was just sensitive skin, he supposed, but still it shouldn't affect him this much.

He pushed his thoughts aside for the moment in favour of watching Sherlock. The man was slightly bent so he could look at the scar more closely, and the pads of his fingers were tracing the outline of it, seeming completely and utterly mesmerized. He was like in a trance. John found that he liked that focused calculating look on his features. Sherlock looked predatory, a panther analyzing it's pray ready to strike. It made John shiver in awe.

"How did you get this?" Even his voice, that was, by nature, deep, had taken now a sultry path. It knocked the air out of John's lungs.

"I-it is a reminder...For me to not forget what I truly am." It was just part of the truth and by the looks of it Sherlock knew that too, but he didn't press it. John was grateful for that. He didn't want to remember the horrible choices he had made in the past. To protect a certain someone who had, later, thrown him out of their life like it was nothing. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. *Focus*

Sherlock then, took a step back and pushed past the Star, turning the water on. He looked at John expectantly.

"Step in"

And John did. Once he found himself in the bathtub, he sat down to make it easier for Sherlock to reach him and looked up at the detective a bit lost. Sherlock stared at him for some long seconds before realising that he was supposed to help John shower. 

He took the shower head from it's place on the wall and told John to close his eyes. As the Star did, he was met with a cold, wet sensation starting at his head and literally trickling down his face and onto his bare shoulders. He yelped in discomfort. Getting the hint, Sherlock turned the water a bit hotter, smiling slightly as he saw John's body relax a bit.

The Star let his head fall in between Sherlock's tights, looking for the warmth and gentleness of the detective's delicate hands that were now buried deep in John's golden hair, washing off the star dust. John's trousers were soaking wet, but he wasn't truly bothered by the sensation, sparks of pleasure running through him.

*He could get used to this.*

**Author's Note:**

> Any comment, kudos and constructive criticism are welcome  
> I love you guys❤❤


End file.
